


Damage Control

by madame_d



Category: Alias
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Episode Related, Episode: s02e19 Endgame, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-02
Updated: 2003-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:16:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_d/pseuds/madame_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First night buyer's remorse</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damage Control

You know that Sydney would never understand. Logically, you realize that she has no right to invoke the jealousy clause, let alone the intolerance one, but common sense and emotion have never been bed partners, and so you worry and torment yourself, and just know that she won't ever understand.

You feel as though you've lost a friend; a co-worker who was more than that. In your mind, you see yourself holding an old-fashioned balance. Was it worth it? Was it worth losing a friend to gain a lover? Yes. Then, cruelly, the weights shift, and the balance falls from your hand and plummets. You know how fast the situation can change. That it is possible to lose this friend, who's become a lover, and then you will be all alone and will have to request a transfer to New York or maybe Alaska, and they will get back together the way it has always been meant to be.

Unbidden, an old memory comes up, resurfacing from the subconscious. The day he came in to work, glowing with that secret smile that is the universal code for "I got laid last night." He told you, casually, while working on his report, that Sydney offered him a drawer at her place, 'for convenience.' You both knew that wasn't quite true, but refused to make it more than that. You were tired of being brokenhearted; he didn't want to be hopeful in vain. Attempting a light tone, you mentioned wishing for a girlfriend to allocate you a drawer at her place. Since you both were taking it lightly, he offered you a drawer at his place instead. Later that night, you sent a prayer of thanks for thinking so fast on your feet. You said you didn't want it at his place, and were stunned that you weren't hit by a lightning for that blatant lie. You both pretended that his words were a joke, because you couldn't stand the pain of them, and you knew that he didn't mean them the way they came out.

He never knew. He wasn't oblivious; field-trained agents don't have the luxury. But you were a field agent, as well; you knew how to compartmentalize and how to present a perfect poker face. He never knew. In your heart of hearts, though, you have always suspected that he hadn't known because he did not want to see.

Your thoughts return to Sydney, and you get a hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach. She won't understand. You crave the closeness and the easy banter, but you know you have no right anymore. You wonder if you should file for a transfer request anyway. To get away from her pain-filled eyes, from the dark shadow lurking in her father's, and from the constant threat of being sent to your death by Agent Bristow, Sr. for hurting his daughter. Logically, you know that Jack Bristow has neither the authority nor the cruelty to do that, but your guilt suffocates you from the inside, making thinking hard and logic optional. Common sense and emotion should be declared official enemies.

You walk back inside, only now realizing that the LA night air is not quite as warm as you initially thought it was. A glimpse at the clock reveals that you'd been out there for over an hour. You rub at your bare upper arms, and glance at the bed. Your gaze is caught and held, unexpectedly, and you attempt a small smile that quickly crumples and slides off.

"Eric, what are you doing all the way over there? Come to bed." The invitation is made in a sleepy, raspy, and all too sexy voice, and you obey. Not because you want to sleep, but because thinking while someone is asleep in your arms is far more pleasant than reflections on the balcony, cold night air chilling you from the outside while your guilt eats you up inside.

You climb into bed, and are immediately cradled and arranged like a favorite teddy bear. You put your hands in all the right places, arms tightening minutely, as long elegant fingers knead your pec, just above the heart. You don't sleep at all that night, but the warmth of the embrace brings you temporary peace.

You drive to work together, even though inside, you have to steel your nerves and tell yourself repeatedly that you are a field-trained CIA agent, who can, technically, handle one small but irate and upset female. You sit down at your desk and watch for her to come in, knowing you won't be able to work until she arrives. You fidget and squirm in your seat and ignore looks thrown your way, because the rub of the fabric of your pants against the cushion of the desk chair produces enough audible noise to attract unwanted attention.

Sydney comes in, catching your eye and smiling. You frown, confused, and stare at her as she makes her way to your desk. She beams at you, and all you can do is stare at the dimple in her cheek. She is wearing an austere black pant suit, and when he gets up to greet her, you notice that their tops match. They look beautiful together, and you feel that you do not belong. You make a mental note to file for a transfer order as soon as she leaves to talk to the Director. Instead, she goes around your desk, and you get up automatically. She walks right up, disrespectful of personal space, arms around your ribcage. You hug her back, awkwardly, confused and lost.

"Take care of him," she whispers in your ear. When she steps back, she smiles, and it does not waver. There is no pain in her eyes, and you think there hasn't ever been; it was all your imagination. She winks, turns around, and leaves. You sit back down and glance at him. He is glowing with that secret "I got well-laid last night" smile, and it's directed at you. He looks happy. His fingers reach out to clasp your wrist, briefly but tightly, and you find yourself smiling back. Hoping (praying) that nobody is watching, you run your thumb along his knuckles, both of you looking down at your hands. Then, regretfully, you have to let go. You clasp your own hands together, stretching, and pull your chair closer to your desk.

"So, Mike, how's that situation in Spain? What did Will discover?" As he relays Will's research while typing up his report, his socked foot rubs up and down your calf under the desks. You know people might notice, but you don't care. You know they'll understand.


End file.
